The screen lit up. The caller ID flashed a name I hadn’t seen in two years. Julian.
The default marimba ringtone echoed through the dead-silent chapel, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and the polished marble floor. The sound was absurdly cheerful in the heavy, lily-scented air. Richard lunged for the phone. His manicured fingers hovered inches from the screen.
“Don’t touch it!” I screamed. My voice tore at my throat, raw and unrecognizable.
I snatched the phone from the white satin pillow. My cuffed hands fumbled with the glass. The metal bracelets clinked sharply against the casing. I swiped answer. I hit speaker.
“Hello?” I said. My voice was a dry, ragged scrape.
“Clara?” The voice was crystal clear. It was Julian. The slight, arrogant lilt was unmistakable. “Baby, what are you doing? Why are you at the funeral? I told Richard to keep you away.”
The marshals froze. Officer Davis, the older one with the kind eyes, slowly lowered his taser. Richard stopped mid-lunge. His face drained of all color, leaving him looking like a wax figure melting under the recessed lights. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
“You’re dead,” I whispered. The cold from the marble floor seeped through my orange jumpsuit, biting into my knees.
“I’m in Zurich,” Julian said, his voice tight, panicked. The background noise on his end was the clinking of silverware and a low hum of conversation. “I had to disappear. The debts, the cartel, they were going to kill me. Richard helped me fake it. He was supposed to take care of you! He was supposed to keep you quiet!”
I looked at Richard. He was trembling violently now, his hands raised in a desperate, placating gesture. “Clara, it’s not what it sounds like,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “He forced me. He threatened my family. I had no choice.”
“Liar,” I said. The word tasted like copper in my mouth.
I looked at Officer Davis. He was staring at Richard, his jaw locked. He raised his radio to his mouth. “Dispatch,” Davis said, his voice steady, echoing in the quiet room. “We have a confession of fraud, conspiracy, and kidnapping on speaker. Send backup to Oakwood Memorial. Now.”
Julian kept talking, oblivious to the shift in the room. “Clara, listen to me. The accounts are in the Caymans. Richard has the passwords. Just let me go, and I’ll send you half. You can start over. Please, baby, just hang up.”
I didn’t answer. I just held the phone up, letting the speaker broadcast his voice to the fifty mourners in the room. Victoria, the lawyer, was backing away toward the heavy oak doors, her face pale, her silk dress rustling.
The police arrived in four minutes. The heavy doors burst open. Four officers in tactical gear stormed the chapel, their boots squeaking on the marble. They didn’t look at me. They looked at Richard.
“Richard Vance,” the lead officer barked, his hand resting on his duty belt. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud, obstruction of justice, and accessory to kidnapping. Turn around and place your hands behind your head.”
Richard didn’t run. He didn’t fight. He just collapsed onto the marble floor, burying his face in his hands, his expensive black suit wrinkling. The officers hauled him up, snapping the cold steel cuffs around his wrists. They dragged him out, his polished shoes slipping on the floor, until the heavy doors closed behind him.
Julian’s voice kept coming from the phone. “Clara? Clara, are you there? Did they leave?”
I looked at Officer Davis. He gently took the phone from my cuffed hands. He pressed a button on his radio. “Trace this call. Now.”
The GPS pinged a luxury villa in Zurich. Interpol was notified before the service was supposed to end. The charges against me were dropped the next morning. The embezzlement was a fabrication. The evidence was in Julian’s own cloud server, which the FBI accessed using the phone’s biometric data. I was released at noon.
I walked out of the courthouse into the bright afternoon sun, the heavy steel doors closing behind me.